Last night, Nathan had a deeply unsettling dream, one that jolted him awake just as the first light of dawn crept in. Outside, it was as if the Ice Age had returned, with temperatures plunging well below zero. He opened the window, allowing the snowflakes to pelt him relentlessly, like a self–imposed punishment.
He envied Simon. Simon could stand openly by Tia Clark’s side, helping her through countless challenges and raising a sweet, beautiful child with her. That had been Nathan’s dream in his youth, a dream that now seemed utterly unattainable.
In his nightmare, the lips he had kissed countless times spoke words that were cold and final.
“Nathan, are you trying to kill me a second time? If you come any closer, I won’t go through with this surgery.”
“As you wish, I’ll die right here in front of you again.”
Nathan’s face was ashen. Each time he awoke from such nightmares, he was drenched in sweat, his limbs numb. Yvonne had told him that enduring the panic was far from ideal.
So he grabbed the medication at hand, shaking as he poured a handful into his mouth, his teeth clenching against the bitterness.
The light in the operating room flickered on, and Simon was standing in the corridor when he encountered Nathan, who was lighting a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke,” Simon said, declining the offered cigarette with a complex look. Nathan, however, wasn’t offended. His gaze was downcast, his face flushed unnaturally.
Nathan leaned against the door, smoke curling around him. “Aren’t you nervous?” he asked quietly.
“Tia Clark promised me she’d be okay,” Simon replied evasively.
Of course, he was nervous. But he couldn’t show it. In this family, with sickness and youth to consider, Simon had to be the pillar, the one who stood tall and strong.
If he displayed any fear, who would comfort Mia and Tia Clark?
A month ago, they had been rivals. Now, they shared similar emotions, each man standing in his own corner, exhaling into the cold winter air.
“Are you not getting married?” Nathan lit another cigarette, the lighter briefly illuminating his face, slick with sweat. He didn’t rush to smoke it, just let it burn between his fingers.
“No,” he laughed softly, “I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s life. Someone like me…”
“At least you’re aware,” Simon said coolly. “You’re running a fever.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Simon suddenly confessed. “If you die, it wouldn’t be fair to me. You’ve been such a significant part of Tia Clark’s life, and I have to admit that if you were to die, she would remember you forever.”
“She’d make a grave in her heart for you, leaving only a small space for Mia. I wouldn’t have enough room, and I can’t accept that.”
“For the past three years, I’ve been the one by her side, the one who gave everything for her. Nathan, if you have any decency left, if you feel any guilt towards her, please don’t disturb her anymore. You should live well, continue to be that untouchable jerk in her mind, so she can truly forget you.”
The wind at the stairwell was strong, and Simon spoke slowly. Nathan listened silently until the cigarette burned down to his fingers, scorching them.
It was as if he had suddenly awoken from a long dream. He nodded and agreed, “Alright.”
Simon was right.
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15:16 i
Chapter 22
Victoria’s death wasn’t Tia Clark’s fault. Nathan had tormented her for five years under that pretense, almost causing her death multiple times.
His throat was too dry to utter a sound. He exhaled a hot breath, his mouth open as if wanting to say more, but Simon didn’t look back as he opened the door and left.
The phone in Nathan’s pocket buzzed with notifications, likely calls from Yvonne. She was a diligent doctor, perhaps well–versed in her field, but unable to unshackle Nathan’s heavy heart.
Nathan knew well the cure for his emotional ailment was simple: forget Tia Clark.
But the desire to see her was like a stolen flame, and Nathan felt like Prometheus bound to a cliff, endlessly tormented by an eagle, yet accepting it with a twisted sense of satisfaction.
The surgery had been underway for an hour and a half. Although the doctors had warned them it might take longer, Simon’s anxiety was palpable. He sat on the bench outside the operating room, his forehead resting on his fingers as he prayed.
Once a staunch atheist, Simon only realized why so many prayed in hospitals when someone he loved was in the operating room, their fate uncertain.
“Is the patient’s family here?” The door to the operating room opened briefly before closing again. Simon stood up immediately, looking at the nurse.
“Please sign this critical condition notice,” the nurse indicated the stark white paper.
Simon was momentarily stunned. As a doctor, he had asked families to sign such forms countless times, but now, when it was his turn, his hands shook so much he could barely hold the pen.
Even knowing it didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong with Tia Clark.
The nurse was clearly in a hurry, and Simon bit down to calm himself, signing his name before she returned to the operating room.
His eyes reddened, and he found it impossible to sit still. He stood, pacing anxiously.
